


Heaven Kissing Hill

by York



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: 5+1 Things, Adam-Centric, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Child Abuse, Deleted Scenes, M/M, Religion, Sleep Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 06:44:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11285835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/York/pseuds/York
Summary: Five times Adam Parrish thought religion was a sham and one time he found God.





	Heaven Kissing Hill

**Author's Note:**

> a couple of these were hard for me to write so they may be hard for survivors to read, especially 1-2, so i wanted to fairly warn of them. if anything else should be tagged, please let me know on [tumblr](http://ellipsesetcetera.tumblr.com/). this is both a heart-project for Pride Month and also an early birthday present to July boy Adam Parrish. it's my first time trying this format but it was an absolute pleasure to write, so please leave a kudos/comment if you enjoyed too.

1.

Doubt always comes before belief and Adam never had much belief to spare, so in its absence, he had an abundance of doubt.

He believed he would grow older but doubted he would do so gracefully. The passage of time was as guaranteed as the sun rising. It was something to know, unaffected by belief, and knowing things was so much better than believing in them because knowledge had the wonderful property of also being true.

He believed he would grow up, and grow out of his home town, but he did not know it for sure. Time would bear on with or without him. At night, Adam prayed that time would take him along with it and never leave him behind. Being present was always such a fantastical ideal. Being awake, and being alive, and happy to be both of those things — that was something worth praying for.

No one seemed to listen to him at night. No one really listened in the daytime, either, and when violence clotted the light from the sky — and its arrival was such a timely and expected eclipse — Adam began to doubt there was a God.

Oh, he tried to avoid it by his own bravery but that, too, was whittled away along with his belief. Working to stay safe meant there was no default peace to settle into. It meant curled toes and defensive arms, thinking another two sentences ahead in a conversation. Trying to frantically dig, fingernails covered in dirt, toward an outcome that wouldn't end with more hurt.

The first time — how he hated remembering the first time his father became violence, but the first time it happened, his mother stood by and allowed it.

When Adam's cheek was red and his eyes were welled with stinging and salty confusion, she cowered, cancelling out the fight she had put up earlier: frenzied, pointing, telling Adam exactly how badly a mistake they thought he was. When it happened, she did not move between father and son. Just stood by. Her husband's rage was meteoric, blotting out a burning-out star, physical and closed-fisted and it marked a _before_ and an _after_ and afterward, Robert Parrish said, "Now the night's ruined."

Curled into his hovel of a room, later in that ruined night, Adam tried to pray even though he had never been to a mass. Youth has a way of catastrophizing every last thing; down to the way words echo longer than bruises when they're spat out, to how a loaded man sounds convinced that he's right, to the fear that said if something happened once, then it can happen again.

He was so young. A kid alone with his lightless shock and patchwork blankets and he thought, desperately, _Why do bad things happen to me? Why, God, why, why?_

No one answered him. No one ever answered him, and as doubt fades into belief, he began to believe it was because no one was listening.

 

2.

Adam clutched at his notebook and held it tightly to his chest. He looked down, down the long and deserted street leading away from the school, but nothing arrived. The street was quiet. He waited for something to show — his father's guttural truck, his mother's subdued sedan, or anything, or anyone. He'd take a tumbleweed but they did not literally live in a desert. He'd take a new family, a sibling, a friend, but that was wishful and where minds wandered when they waited with toes hanging over curbs for thirty minutes after a shitty day at school.

It was not his fault.

"I guess I should have expected this," his homeroom teacher had said when Adam came into class empty-handed and ratty-clothed, but she probably just cared about the first part. Adam cared about both.

_If I hadn't talked back._

Other students hid mouths behind hands and looked him up and down. They crowded around their finished posters, dutifully colorful cardstock paper cut up with fanciful squiggly scissors their parents bought for them special.

Adam's was in black and white. Adam's was pristine and correct and researched. Adam's was torn apart and currently resided in the dumpster behind his double-wide.

It wasn't his fault.

"Why are you so obsessed with that," Robert Parrish had said, the word _obsessed_ slithering on too many snake-sounds because he wasn't sober. "You won't —" he pounded his chest to release air. "You won't get anywhere."

If he was a more eloquent animal, he might have instead said what he really meant: _you won't amount to anything._

He was malice and glassy in his expression, unable to see or focus on what he was destroying. Robert Parrish never understood things like that. When he got in a rage and tore up everything that was tearable, and his eyes landed on Adam — a small, frantically thudding heart — Adam understood even less than his father did.

So, now he waited in front of his school, and that was the night before, and this was the afternoon, after his other classmates had gone home and he missed the project's due date.

In a way, it didn't matter. Schoolwork was an insignificant thing at this age, but kids weren't taught that except by parents that told them cruel things. To Adam, it felt like a bad day and a worse yesterday and the failing grade stung just as much as it would have tomorrow.

Forty-five minutes. No one arrived to pick him up.

The principal laid a hand on his shoulder and offered to call his parents.

In the main office, Adam heard his house phone's dull voicemail three times and wound the spiral cord of the telephone around his finger until it turned purple. The color made his stomach turn in remembrance, so he stopped, and hung up the suffocating dialtone, and only stepped out of the office once his skin had gone pink again.

Adam reported that all was quiet on the home front, as they were down the street in front of the school, but instead of joking, he lied, "I think I remember them saying they were away 'til late." He looked at his shoes. "I forgot to get a ride with a neighbor."

It was a good story. His accent made it innocent and familiar and believable. Everyone had gone by then, so the elderly lady at the front desk offered to take him home. Adam agreed, and thanked her kindly, which he had learned how to do on his own, because politeness was never a heartfelt homeschooled subject.

Adam walked the dirt driveway to the trailer alone, save for a gaunt, stray mutt that bumped against his legs, sniffing and biting at his split shoelaces. Stopping after his third tripping, Adam reached down to pet behind its ears. The dog couldn't decide whether to sit or stand at the attention, its tail dusting gravel vigorously into the air. They had stopped a few yards from Adam's front steps. Once the happy, tawny dog finally settled on its rear, Adam heard muffled shouting from the direction of the front door.

Walls of double-wides were perilously thin, makeshift and cheap, so even when approaching the first, second, third step of his porch — Adam heard every word.

"I'm supposed to do everything, then?" This was unmistakably his father's voice. Adam flinched, by reflex. He didn't dare yet go inside. "While you disappear, blowing all my money worse than the kid does?"

A woman's voice — Adam's mother, the only possibility — rose to match volume. "Worse than! You know, sometimes I wonder why I didn't divorce you years ago."

Loud crashing followed. It sounded like glass, or dishware. Adam retreated down a step. "Try it," said Robert Parrish. "Take him with you. You wouldn't last."

The front door wrenched open. Adam faltered, hanging onto the railing with both hands, suddenly faced with his father barricading the entrance to his home. He saw his shuttered mother, stiff and drawn inward, staring after him from inside. They both saw him there, and the moment hung noose-like as they regarded each other.

Adam swallowed, and then words were falling out of his mouth. "I got left at school."

His father snarled, "Get out of my sight."

Parrish barreled past his frozen son and dug his keys out of his pockets with extra gusto, another expulsion of his rage. The stench trailing after him burned. Adam hurried to obey, going inside and guiding the door shut behind him, being sure not to let it slam.

When he turned back towards the main room, his mother was already occupied in the kitchen, turning about a pot that didn't appear to need turning. The roar of the truck from the garage shook the floors, its sputtering drawing relieved breaths from Adam, and then it was gone, long gone, down the pitted road.

Adam knew better than to mention it again. He had been allowed to go without any further fuss, and he took his chances where he saw them. After he helped his mother with dinner, silently, and she set down into her meager chair in front of the beaten television, Adam left to sit on his bed.

Too often he bottled his frustrations like this. Always; he always did this. They compressed into a speck, and tipped from his fingertips to land out of sight.

He'd never heard that word before in his home. His mother had said it like a curse, like she could have cut her tongue just by saying _divorce_. Wasn't that a sin? Marriage was a rite to be respected, or sacred, or something.

If there was a God, Adam thought, his parents wouldn't be in very good standing. But if there was a God, and he was their offspring, and holiness was transitive between equal things like he was learning in algebra — then he wouldn't be, either.

 

3.

"You good to close up, Parrish?"

Adam looked up from a sweltering radiator, rag poised to wipe the condensation down again. "'Course, Boyd." His accent made itself friendly around the shop, where no one ever batted an eye at the sound.

Boyd flicked off the lights like he was the one closing up, a force of habit, then sheepishly turned them back on again. Adam could have made a comment on his age, but his own mind was heavy with haze, so he just quirked his mouth and nodded a goodbye. Boyd said, "Thanks, kid. See you tomorrow?"

"Yep," Adam replied. "Tomorrow."

In the fall, he was going to start at Aglionby Academy.

The summer promised it, and countless hot and close middays, with not a puff of cloud in the sky, chased his bike rides along the way to his jobs. He sometimes felt like the sun-parched grass looked at him, suddenly, despairingly, but there was nothing he could do for it. Even a downpour wouldn't turn it green now; it was only possible through the changing of the seasons.

It was all going to be worth it. All the extra hours, extra money, saving up to get out of this place, out of that trailer, into a better school and a better life.

He said to Boyd, "Have a nice night."

"You, too," Boyd returned, and left him to it.

The garage door rattled down on his hinges to settle on the concrete, and Adam waited a few seconds for the metallic ringing to fade. It stung at his ears, an inside insect, but it was almost a disappointment when the sound died away. With nothing left to keep his mind alert, Adam's eyes fell closed.

He fast realized that was a mistake.

Sleep begged for him, just a minute, or two, or for the rest of his life — but he couldn't, not even for a little while. He shook his head and blinked his eyes open forcefully. Fresh air, he needed cold air, that always helped. But Virginian evenings during these months rarely contained such a thing: the air drowsily clogged with moisture that mosquitoes fed off of.

It was better than the stale and oily vapors that recycled throughout the garage. Adam made for the side door and propped it open. The open air brought an earthly chill to his nose, gracefully swimming into the shop and shivering bumps along his skin in its kindness. Now necessarily more on edge, Adam set back to work on the dulled green junker.

As he crouched, a groan shook through his body, which was startling until Adam realized it had come from his stomach. Shit. He'd forgotten to pack food for later, though he didn't think there was anything left in the fridge at home, so it was possible that dwelling on it was moot.

He palmed the floor for where he'd left his toolkit, but it was misplaced. He'd left it by the front wheels, hadn't he? He needed it; nothing more would get done without it. Patting down his coverall pockets — no, why the hell would it be on his person — Adam circled the car to check by the back wheels, the desk, the open door —

And then he couldn't look any further, because he couldn't see anything.

Blackness crawled around the corners of his pupils. Not just night-time black, not like the aged fluorescent overheads were suddenly devoured by junebugs — this was a dense, black cotton over his eyes. Weights sat in his temples, dragging down his head, and as his senses high-pitched buzzed away to nothing, Adam recognized he was passing out.

He met the ground a strings-cut person. The cold and artificial garage floor pressed against his face. Adam couldn't spare any attention to its texture — he was preoccupied with survival, with believing, deliriously, that he might have been dying.

Did it creep upon lives like this? Did it shake your hand, and drag you to the ground? Adam had always wished it was like getting knocked out, quickly. At least he would know what to expect. He hated this kind — this slow slither of starry lead through his eye sockets was maddening and unstoppable.

And things were supposed to flash before you, regrets and joys both, but Adam had scarce few of the second.

Nothing was there. Nothing showed. It was alarming, and then it was nothing, and then it was relief, because he could sleep and be forgetful and empty-minded.

It took minutes, a gap in conscious awareness of a timeline, for Adam to come back. Blood rushed to his head, and being horizontal helped, heart more easily pumping oxygen to his brain. Shakily, he pushed himself up on his elbow, and his vision swam but at least it was swimming; it was moving; it had color to it and wasn't one singular faint light leading into an afterlife.

Though he hadn't seen anything like that, either. It had been just so much blackness.

His head throbbed and throat scuffed with aridity. The dehydration did not help a damn thing. _Water_. Gripping the car's bumper for leverage, Adam lifted himself off the ground, and found the nearest rusted sink.

Adam cupped his hands under the running water and eagerly drank from them — and abruptly spat when he realized his palms were stained with greasy oil, the run-off making the water taste metallic. Unable to wait, he stuck his face under the faucet and sipped. His head grew even dizzier, sideways as he was, but Adam shut his eyes to ward off the tilting feeling of not knowing which direction the sky was. His hands gripped the side of the sink so he would remain standing. Air was just as vital, so he pulled away, wiping his chin with the back of his forearm.

_Take a breath_ , Adam told himself. _Please, eyes, work._

Why couldn't he stay upright after just forty-eight hours of being awake? That was nothing. He wouldn't be able to eke anything out of this life if he couldn't do better.

Deliberately, he sank into the office chair, resigned to his inability to bike home in this state. It was already late, and coming home any hour later than promised was a similar sentence of punishment. To stand any of it — he firstly needed rest.

He closed his eyes; they stayed closed. Unconsciousness was right there, waiting for him. Before he let it take him, willingly, he'd decided on something important:

If there was no afterlife to save him, and this life was all he had, then he would have to save himself.

 

4.

In all of the Earth's abundant wonders, magical wonders were wilder and more stupendous than Adam could comprehend. Even then, there were gradients of them: planes that could fly without fuel, ravens that were born without nests, monsters deformed by beaks and blackness —

Lightning striking a stone and having the nervous system of long-lost spirits being reborn before Adam's fingers — _that_ wrought an awe throughout his whole body.

The ley line was alive. More alive than animals were alive because it lived in the years in front of it and the years behind it and still inhabited the present. Cabeswater, timeless Cabeswater, burst from the ground, ribboned through the air, reached into the sky. Roots entangled with wellsprings of soil. Trees gasped in carbon dioxide and expelled a communion of oxygen that Adam accepted into his lungs, lungs spiderwebbed by veins and twigs and leaves.

On the night that a blazing dragon would sweep across a strip of white cars, and bear down on its creator, Adam witnessed a magic that didn't give a damn about any higher power other than itself.

"Now!" he shouted. "Ronan, now!"

Ronan stood, a force of unrelenting un-nature, and said something indiscernible. Then, with his forearm outstretched, he vanished, taking his creature along with him. He was never even there to begin with, Adam knew. He was just another apparition.

Adam was half-inside a dream, half-outside, his bone-worked fingers crackling with electricity and hair standing on end. And then he was back in reality. The influence of scrying and whatever Ronan had cast over him dissipated, and all that was left was himself, Persephone, and the beating heart of the corpse road beneath his knees.

Adam heaved breaths, air taken from him by the ritual, by the lightning, by his confession of the rent and the thrill of the summation of the past day — hurtling toward helping Ronan create what he needed.

"You," Persephone said, a waif alighting beside him, "are quite something else, Magician." Her head tipped, and she corrected herself. "Adam."

He felt like something else. Not quite human, not quite alien, but both and more and pious to the feeling in his heart that was singing, singing. It wasn't any god he was feeling, but an exhaustion so exciting that it burst nerves as it traveled between the dirt and his collapsed body and back again, just as sacred.

"Something else," Adam echoed. Agreed, or questioned.

There were natural forces in play greater than religion could explain, stranger than science could prove, and that was preposterous, but in no book or bible or manifesto had Adam read something that came close to encompassing this.

It transcended unreal. It was magic, and nothing came close. He was alive, and godless, and could feel his spirit still tingling on his skin.

Then there was Noah; solid, strong. In a hallowed movement, he waved hello.

"You're back," said Adam. Persephone greeted him, eyes black, with a tired smile.

"Thanks," Noah replied, "for noticing." His stance was relaxed, intrinsic with the hum of the land. He glanced at some location far away, miles away. "I'd rather be here than there." Noah offered a hand; it was nearly warm when Adam took it.

Standing, Adam searched the sky, and saw fireworks in the distance.

He wondered what would come next. The possibilities sparkled down in all colors.

 

5.

_Did you dream it? Did you dream Cabeswater?_

It was past midnight, something-o'clock, definitely not 6:21, and Adam was still reliving the revelation.

The day churned like the acid on Ronan's skin, turned like the terror in Adam's stomach when he saw the two of them, Ronan and the Orphan Girl, sinking deeper and dying — and writhed like the vines that plunged in after them. It howled like a half-conscious passenger drive to find a demon in a trailer park. Bled, like the jagged scar across Blue's eye. And now it blanketed around him, and now it was tomorrow, and the previous day still seemed unending.

It was long, and fearful, and in spite of everything, glowing. Because Adam now knew that Ronan had dreamt Cabeswater.

They had not left it in a good state. Decaying and quiet, when usually its whisperings were such a comfort that it was easy to take for granted. Adam missed its stronger presence, more keenly felt at nighttime, and when he reached out to it he felt barely anything.

The forest was in pain. Hibernating, shielding such a war from Adam but he knew now what the black nothingness looked like with his own eyes. And it was a nightmare.

Still, his eyes did not wander, and his hands did as he told them to do. They tucked peacefully under his pillow — pinned, just in case — but they were his own. The arrangement of stones at the shore of the pond had sparked some energy back into the frayed and dimming lines, so at least for tonight, Adam could rest.

His body rested. His mind, though, raced.

_Dreamt it._ From his own beautiful fucking mind.

The vastness of it wasn't nearly as compelling as the specificity of it. All of its details; the breeze that blew dust flecks between blades of grass and made them angle north; how each tree leaned forward when Adam was about to say something; each knotted vine and rocky outcropping and shimmering stream looking brand new after a blink.

All of those, the sum of them — they fed into the sheer quantity of what Cabeswater was. But if he focused on each individual qualitative piece, it was distinctly infinite. He'd once thought that Gansey and Blue's reverence for the forest made it holy. Adam didn't think they were wrong, exactly. More than once, he himself thought that Cabeswater was something of the sort, but even more temporal and free.

Now he knew better: it had come from Ronan, and that meant there existed people in the world that religion could not explain.

Ronan, who communed with towering trees and self-possessed priests, with beaked beasts and gearshifts. Who spoke with fists and sneers, who spoke to Adam differently, a little off and a little rough, and underneath it all —

Adam knew what was underneath it all.

When Ronan studied his hands too long, when he felt Ronan's breath on his own face, and knew Ronan had felt his, he was defenseless to think about it. How the day whirled and scampered under the burred brush of events, but those sensations stood and shook themselves free. He still reeled from it: coming back from scrying, from the fastest he'd ever thrown his body and soul apart. At the edge of the acid pool, and Ronan's strong hand closing on his arm, pulling him up. Leaning on each other, saving each other.

Adam rolled over in bed. The walls were chipped, and he studied the marks to clear his head. Paint peeling, holes from crucifixes in need of spackling, a seeping water stain that was his own fault when he hadn't listened to Cabeswater until it began to flood his apartment, sideways. That was a long time ago. It was possible that was weeks ago, but it felt like ages.

Listening was another language he'd learned. Aside from Latin, from French, from the two-way street of the way boys talked to girls, and the way boys talked to boys.

Damn. He really couldn't keep his mind off it at all.

It wasn't that he hadn't admitted it to himself yet, or that he was loath to admit it to anyone else. He didn't really care about what any god-fearing group thought about his sexuality, and he had come to grips with it almost as soon as he'd figured out a word for it existed. _That's what it's called? Bi, for two._ What a relief it was to learn it.

He wondered if religion yet had an answer for it, or a compromise, or a _Jesus still loves you_ homily that backhanded a request to not tell when no one was asking. The world still used words as weapons and laws as death sentences but maybe there resided pockets of personal belief where God and selves could coexist. Adam usually found that his self didn't need company.

At that, he wondered if he was lying to himself. His self had never _had_ company, until Cabeswater.

Until Ronan, maybe.

He let that warm him, all over.

The inextricable unity of both of them, everything Cabeswater had comforted in him, quieting his fears and self-consciousness, every time the forest held him safely away in boughs of leaves and love — _love_ , damn it, he urged himself to call it by name — was a lullaby that held his hands and traced his heartlines. Listening to the song of it, he stayed awake for some time, with Ronan on his mind.

Adam could imagine every note standing on its own. Without Cabeswater. His body remembered how to give that to himself, how to have prayers come immediately true when all he wanted was just to feel at home. And what it gave to him, something never to be forgotten, was a truth:

After someone has shown you the parts of you worth loving, it becomes easier to find them again by yourself.

 

+1

The morning after came wintry and crisp, holding everything dearly under blooming clouds. Light feathered the edges of low stratus wisps and Adam saw birds in the grayscale patterns.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept naked. It was odd, both a release and a bedraggled touch of sheets against his thighs. His toes curled, stretching out a pleasant ache in his calves, wakefulness greeting his muscles with memories of the night before and dreams caressing through the gaps. It was a subtle morning — it was a Sunday. That seemed happenstance, and it also seemed kismet.

And the warmth of Ronan asleep against him made Adam consider the concept of divine grace as real and tangible enough to believe in.

Nose at the back of a tattooed neck, Adam wound his arm further around Ronan, hand sliding up his chest. Ronan must have been dreaming, because he didn't stir right away. He was motionless, breathing otherwise even and steady. It was going to be a minute, so Adam pressed his mouth to Ronan's shoulder, nestled under overlapping black-inked feathers, and waited.

He loved this. Unending, repeating, he thought _I love this_ again and again. How easy it was to think it, as second nature as pressing against Ronan's back or waking up spooning or kissing each other senseless. Adam just held him, suspended in animation as he came back from sleep, as he brought something with him.

Whatever it was, it didn't make itself apparent. Ronan's hand was closed on top of his pillow. Perhaps that was it, a small thing. One week ago, Adam had been awoken by a heaviness around his shoulders — a woolen blanket, scented of fresh dew. Ronan had scratched the back of his head, and said, "Keep it."

The scent stayed. The following night at St. Agnes, with the blanket covering him ears to toes, Adam drifted off to memories of rain.

Now, he didn't need to count the seconds. Soon enough, Ronan inhaled, grunted lowly, and tightened his hand.

"What is it?" Adam whispered.

Taut knuckles gripped even harder, and stagnant silence took the room. Just as faintly, Ronan said, "Close your eyes."

Adam did. But Ronan couldn't see him, so he rested his crown on the curve of Ronan's neck. In the next second, Adam heard a shuffling of sheets, then a dense _thunk_ against the wall. He scowled, curiously picking up his head. "What was that?"

"Never mind," Ronan said, and shifted in Adam's arms, turning around completely and running his now-open palms up Adam's thighs and waist. The rush of so much skin brushing together shorted Adam's thoughts, and he nearly forgot about the dream thing as Ronan's lips trailed from his ear and further down.

"Did you just drop it under the bed?"

"What are you talking about," murmured Ronan, busy exploring Adam's collarbone.

"Ronan," Adam sighed. Each sensitive spot Ronan touched his mouth to was another blessed distraction, drops of holy water on his skin, so Adam bit his lip. "Good morning."

Ronan stilled, and a smile curled against Adam's throat. "Good fucking morning," he agreed.

They woke up together, newly, when there was still time before either of them had present responsibilities. Hands traveled where they wished but not very far, some remaining hesitancy and boyishness stuttering their touches.

"Will you tell me?" Adam asked, not quite ready to let him get away with it. "What that was."

Ronan kissed him at length. Adam dazedly recognized this as a shutting-up tactic, a page from his own book. It felt like the conversation was lost, and Adam couldn't bring himself to prefer anything else, but Ronan pulled back. He rose on his forearms, and for a few seconds, he just looked down on Adam's features, searching closely for something. He answered, "Someday."

Someday didn't sound like soon. But it sounded like a promise, or a question, or a day when their lives leaned into some beckoning calm.

Ronan sank back against the pillows. He stretched; the light shined on him just right. Atop the bedspread cut heavenly light shafts, covering Ronan's arched stomach and chest with them and Adam was moved by it.

If he had made it to this moment, someone might be looking out for him after all. Some measure of miracles was involved in this making of peace and steadiness, and the mutual exclusivity of magic and religion didn't seem as absolute. He'd never felt so balanced, so righted, in a way that he thought he never could with what damage he'd sustained.

Breath full in his lungs, an internal compass finally angled true north, Adam dragged his leg over Ronan's middle and pushed himself up. He tucked his head down, noses touching, drawing out seconds in anticipation of a kiss until Ronan couldn't weather it and he surged up, hands on cheeks, and Adam gave in, gave in to the sacrament.

Though he suspected it was true, perhaps it didn't matter if anyone was out there. He had taken himself here, and would take himself wherever he needed to go.

He had very little doubt, and an abundance of hope.

Adam couldn't wait to see what came next.


End file.
